


gross skin

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Graphic Description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	gross skin

There are patches of wither-flower-dried skin on your arm.

You often try to pick at the dirt-flaked bacteria-infested skin, disgusted by the curled flakiness that reminds you of a muddy brown decomposed animal carcass rotting beneath the cruel red gaze of the desert sun, but for some reason, you can't. Every time you take your uselessly aristocratically long nails to your stomach-aching-and-turning flesh and harshly pull like a week-old band-aid, the patches refuse to budge, obstinately lying on your skin like wriggling tapeworm parasites.

So, with your wetly pulsing heart finger-squeezed need to rid yourself of the disgusting healing skin, you dream about it instead.

In the squishy womb-water of your baggy-eyed deep-set dream, you take your spindly spider nails to the brittle and throat-dry infested skin sitting upon your diseased ringworm flesh and rip rip rip. When you tear off the feeble-body-thin shit-brown flakes with the brutality of a blood-starved barbarian, you realize that there is thick, cheese-clotting paste beneath the unwanted healing patches. The bile paste is white, like lilies painstakingly threaded throughout the holes of white-bodied skin, a flower crown sewn beneath your arm and its flesh, reaching the cicada-shell-hollow bone. Sickly filth. It is dirty-beautiful rotten wound-festering pus vomit trying to crawl out of your rancid fingertip-soft meat.

The next morning, when you wake up, you see that the patches are gone. There are no traces of them, no lingering look see touch smell hear like choking-perfumed storebought flowers. Your skin is as smooth as a baby's molasses-honeyed body, frilly doll-like in its creeping-crawling blankness, but there is a pallid-bruised spot of daisy delicate white sitting on the angular back of your scraped left ankle. 


End file.
